Tidings of Comfort and Joy
by AMarguerite
Summary: Marguerite experiences her first English Christmas. It leaves much to be desired.


A/N: Written for the challenge on demmedelusive.  
Disclaimer: I am not the Baroness Orczy. Please do not sue me.

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Marguerite did not quite know how to celebrate Christmas here, in horrible, rainy England. It didn't snow, like in France, and there seemed to be precious little to celebrate. 

She had privately driven out to London and immersed herself in Catholic ceremony since it was Christmas Eve. Marguerite tried to find solace in it all, in the wonderfully expected patterns of standing and sitting and kneeling, the familiar responses, the prayers she had repeated endlessly since she was a girl, the taste of the Eucharist on her tongue, burning slightly because the church always bought cheap wine and watered it badly.

Yet she stood in the center of the imposing foyer of Blakeney Manor, and the sharp burn of the transubstantiated body and blood became a faint memory at the back of her throat, just as the memory of past, sweet moments of Percy's love stung her eyes whenever she saw the old letters he wrote her.

The maids seemed as ephemeral as shadows as they flitted about in their dull, dark dresses and their fluttering lace caps and aprons. Marguerite stood regally still, as she had learned to do as soon as she assumed the role of Lady Blakeney, allowing the maids to take off her outer layer of clothes.

She could not have felt more alone as she stepped out with a practiced smile and a murmured word of thanks, walking up the staircase. Marguerite trailed her cold hand up the equally cold marble banister. She would turn into marble herself, she felt, soon enough.

"Come, Louise," Marguerite said, switching to French, because it was bright and familiar and wonderful to hear in the cold, empty hall, in damp, rainy, gray England. "Since we have seen to our souls, I may as well see to the staff's presents before retiring for the evening."

Her maid, Louise, was a familiar face against the encroaching chill. Louise was originally from Provence and used to continual warmth and sunshine, with beautiful bright splashes of color from the lush fields of flowers. She found England even more distasteful than Marguerite and grumpily refused to leave the manor unless she was wearing at least two chemises, five petticoats, two gowns, three shawls, an apron, a scarf, gloves, a muff, and a heavy winter cloak.

"As you say, milady," Louise said muffledly. "And Sir Percy?"

Blast. She'd almost forgotten him. Just as he'd forgotten her….

Marguerite turned on the stair, the train of her crimson gown draping down the steps like a frozen spill of wine, her fingertips pressed lightly against the cool marble railing, her eyes closed against an urge to either cry or snap at someone. When she opened them, Frank Benyon, Percy's valet, tried to make his way into the library while attracting as little attention as possible.

"Frank!" Marguerite said, with a false show of friendliness. With an ease borne of years of practice on the stage, Marguerite avoided stepping on her train and kicked it to trail behind her, and walked over to the valet. "Have you seen Sir Percy?"

To his credit, Frank stood at attention and looked as impassive as was humanly possible. "Yes, milady. He is not to be disturbed, however."

Louise leveled a glare at Frank's immaculately brocade-clad back around the same time Marguerite felt herself freeze all over.

"Sir Percy does not wish to be disturbed by his _wife _on Christmas Eve?" Marguerite asked, with a brittle laugh that failed to convince anyone of her mirth. The maids flitted away as silently as they appeared, eyeing Marguerite with mingled pity, curiosity, and smugness. "_Dieu_, that is like him."

Frank had the good grace to start to flush in embarrassment. "He did request that I convey to Louise his congratulations on her mistress's decorations. Blakeney Manor has not seen such festivity since the regrettable death of the late Lady Blakeney. He liked the greenery in particular."

"Tell Sir Percy," Marguerite said icily, plucking a bit of holly from its decorative position on an end-table, "that as much as I hate to disturb his fragile peace with my presence, I had thought it traditional to give the gifts to the servants today. New Years we are to drive out and give gifts to the tenants, after all."

She curled her fingers around the holly, the points digging into her palm.

"Yes, milady," Frank said, disappearing into the library. Sir Percy appeared a moment later, his light blue suit as immaculate and gorgeous as ever. Marguerite felt that it made Sir Percy look vaguely like an icicle.

"M'dear?" he drawled, sticking his hands in the shallow pockets of his culottes.

Marguerite glided towards him. "Merry Christmas, Sir Percy." She pulled out a package from her pocket and shoved it into his chest. "That's for you."

"Er, thank you," Percy replied, momentarily non-plused.

Marguerite tried to press home this unusual advantage. "You know, I'm not entirely used to spending Christmas alone. It is a celebration of motherhood-"

Sir Percy looked momentarily startled. Marguerite vindictively thought of telling him she was with child, but the idea of bringing an innocent child into such a travesty of a marriage was abhorrent.

Marguerite looked over Percy's shoulder at the wall. "I would welcome your company, milord." It was galling to admit the desperate loneliness that drove her to- to begging her own husband for a scrap of affection.

"As you wish, milady." He unexpectedly kissed her hand, sending a half-remembered jolt of warmth through her. "Odd's fish, your hands are cold. Rest one of them on my arm. I may as well see what I can do to warm them."

Marguerite felt herself melting and reminded herself of what a foolish, foolish thing that was. If she let Percy in again, how was she to know he'd stay? Still, he was warm and his breathing was slightly erratic as she neared and for a brief, flash of time, he was human and hers again.

"Merry Christmas, m'dear."

A Christmas present indeed- a brief taste of warmth and love before he sent her back out into the cold. Marguerite tightened her grip on his arm, fixing an insincere smile on her face. She remembered her mother, faintly scolding, from some half-forgotten memory. 'Your face will freeze that way, Margot!'

There was no need to worry. She was already frozen.


End file.
